However long we have
by lovesdaryl
Summary: Set after Lost. After finally talking to Carol about his letter, Daryl sets out to scout and hunt and finds more than he bargained for.
1. I wanted you to read this

I wanted you to read this ...

He hoped that everyone ... Carol ... was asleep by now. It was certainly late enough. On the way up to the prison when he'd returned with Michonne, after he'd spotted the bathtub that she did the laundry in, he'd asked her if she'd made breakfast for everyone and she'd confirmed it. He'd seen the laundry tub with his own eyes, and knowing her, she'd helped with dinner and dishes as well. She should be passed out in her cell by now.

As he'd had a very bad night and a taxing day, plus emotional upheaval after their return to the prison, followed by a long hunt to calm his nerves, he himself was past exhausted as well. It was all he could do not to stomp up the stairs to his perch, and he cringed inwardly at his own echoing footfalls. Surely he could do better than wake half the prison in the middle of the night?

Tired beyond anything he'd known before, he stumbled over the second to last step and barely managed to catch himself with one hand on the railing, but his right shin came down hard on the edge of the last step with a loud, clanging sound and he hissed in pain. This was just what he needed, after spraining his right ankle on a protruding root in the pitch black forest on his way back just now. Cursing softly, he made it the rest of the way up to his perch. Carefully leaning his empty crossbow against the wall at what would amount to the head of his bed in a minute - he didn't keep the weapon loaded while asleep, in case Carl or one of the other kids got their hands on it - he grabbed his bedding and unrolled it. Still favoring his right leg, he sat down, took off his dirty boots and socks and rolled up his pants leg to inspect the damage.

The stairs inside and out were all made of steel, and the tear in his pants, with the edge already feeling wet to his touch in the intermittent darkness, didn't bode well. He waited for the moon to break through the clouds still racing across the sky before actually looking at his leg. There was a nasty gash halfway up his lower leg, bleeding badly. Cursing again, he blindly reached for the first aid pack he kept on hand next to his book stack, took out a bandage roll and ripped open the plastic packaging.

Right at that moment he heard a soft creak on the walkway along the cells behind him, next to his perch – a cell door opening or closing. Before he was even aware of it, his hands were loading his crossbow as he turned around to face whoever was coming at him in the total darkness that had fallen over the prison again as the cloud cover once more completely occluded the moon, still almost full. Inwardly ranting at himself for fucking up his ankle and shin, he hoped it wasn't really someone hostile approaching him who had somehow managed to sneak into the prison – though he wouldn't completely put it beyond that Blake asshole to have come back himself or sent one of his cronies left alive after his batshit crazy attack on them. How ironic it would be for them to have gone out looking for him, burning time and fuel and risking their necks, if he were truly to come crawling back after licking his wounds, find a way to make it in and hide inside like vermin to take them out one by one. By the time his weapon was loaded and he silently rose to his naked feet he was almost hoping it was Blake and he'd get to put that bolt into his remaining eye – but not after giving him some of his own medicine for what he'd done to Merle.

He almost shouted out in surprise when the next shaft of moonlight revealed not Blake but Carol standing right in the sights of his weapon, next to the cell he used as storage for some of his stuff so as not to clutter the perch. Embarrassingly, he could feel heat rising to his neck, face and ears almost instantly, and he lowered his crossbow with a mumbled apology. It wasn't just his overreaction at her approach that made him blush, but he guessed that she wouldn't be aware of that. He remembered their earlier exchange in this very spot in painful detail and hoped it wasn't what she'd come about. Maybe she was bringing him food, the way she always did when he'd missed a meal. His eyes went down to her hands, all but expecting them to hold a bowl.

Apparently, however, his day was going to get worse. She was clutching not a bowl of stew but a very familiar folded piece of paper. He could have kicked himself. Of course she would have read it and come to talk about it. His heartbeat and blood pressure went off the scale, his blood roaring in his ears so loudly that he didn't understand what she'd said the first time around. Mortified, he raised his eyes from his bare feet and bleeding leg to look at her. "Hm?" he asked.

"It's a bad time for this – you're hurt", she repeated, also looking down at his leg now and putting the letter into the pocket of her sweatpants. The first drops of blood were just reaching his ankle which had also started hurting like a bitch now, with the adrenaline wearing off, after climbing the stairs, catching his fall and trying to come up on Carol like a fucking ninja, all while attempting to suppress a limp.

"'s nothin'", he deflected, the way he always did when someone wanted to take care of him. "'m fine." He limped back to his makeshift bed, removing the bolt from his bow, and set his weapon against the wall once more. Sitting down, he folded his legs with the injured one resting on his left knee, carefully took his right foot in his left hand and gently moved it, testing what hurt and what didn't. He didn't think it was sprained badly – he'd gotten hurt while out hunting often enough to have become somewhat of an expert on ankle and knee injuries. This one would hurt for a few days, people were probably going to notice that something was wrong – which he hated, because some of the bolder ones might try to actually talk to him about it - , but he wouldn't need Hershel and it would be as good as new again in a few days' time. Satisfied that he would be okay, he pulled his red rag from his back pocket and was starting to wipe the blood off his leg when she interfered.

"You can't use that to clean it!" He was pretty certain that she hadn't meant to shout, not with everyone who wasn't on watch sleeping all around them.

"Sure can. 's just a cut", he mumbled, folding away one blood-soaked corner of his rag to get to a clean area again. He'd done this a million times. He was a big boy, he didn't need her to mother him, and he'd made enough of a fool of himself in front of her today to last him a lifetime.

As she knelt down beside him, gently taking the rag from his suddenly unfeeling hand, his blood once again roaring in his ears and his heart beating its way out of his chest for sure by now, he realized that any and all decisions about what he might or might not need had been taken out of his hands for the time being. She found his first aid pack, still open on his sleeping bag beside him, and her slender fingers deftly pecked something out from inside it. It was a small, square white package that resembled the foil packs with lemon water tissues that you got in fancy restaurants with certain foods for cleaning your hands after polishing off your plate. Feeling stupid, he realized it was a disinfectant tissue for the exact purpose for which he'd just misemployed his rag.

Watching her competent hands wipe his leg and then gently clean and disinfect the wound itself after she'd produced a penlight from one of her pockets was almost hypnotic. As her touch didn't hurt at all, he assumed that she was either exceedingly good at what she was doing or he was in shock now with his body blocking the pain signals to his brain. Once the wound was clean she found a dressing in his first aid pack, carefully placed it on the jagged cut and picked up the bandage roll that he himself had taken out before noticing her.

"Need ta start at the foot", he muttered, blushing again for being so useless.

Her eyebrows rose in a wordless question.

"Turned my ankle on a root, might 've sprained it. Wanted to wrap that as well", he explained, his eyes firmly on the gleaming white dressing on his leg, unable to look at her.

"And here I was so happy that you weren't even bruised when you came back today", she whispered as she started wrapping the bandage around his ankle. He did feel the pain then, but not in his leg.

"'m sorry. 'm a jackass. Know you hate it when I don't look out."

She paused, trying to catch his eyes, but he kept looking down. He'd started picking on the skin of his left thumb, which was ragged already. "You should know by now that I don't 'hate' anything about you, Daryl", she scolded him softly. "It makes me sad when you're hurt and in pain, is all."

"Yeah, whatever. It's me who did that. Ya don't need more shit in your life."

Smiling, she continued bandaging his leg. "I'm pretty certain you don't get hurt on purpose", she joked. "That damages the fierce impression that you like to make on everybody. People might notice you're not made of stone and start to care."

"People can go ta hell for all I care. Might be we ARE in hell right now", he groused.

"Of course I don't know about you", she began carefully, "but I haven't felt this good in years, personally. For me, hell was before all this. Of course, bad things are still happening everywhere, but the worst has already happened to me - there's only one thing I've left to lose by now, and I've only just learned that it is actually mine to lose."

He couldn't help himself. He had to look at her face after this - to find her looking right back, even though she was still wrapping his leg. Suddenly put out by this, he took the bandage out of her hands and continued the wrapping himself. Her allusion to Sophia's death, however vague, had him drowning in guilt again, and feeling utterly unworthy of her care.

"'m pretty certain ya haven't come out in the middle of the night just to patch me up again", he tried to lure her out. "Gotta be dead on yer feet, probably been up workin' yer ass off for all those ungrateful bitches all day long. What kept you up?"

Taking the folded paper out of her pocket again, she held it out for him to see, but he would have known anyway. It was his letter. He had carried it around for so long before finally giving it to her that he would probably have recognized the sound of it getting unfolded. As he looked at it, shining brightly in the beam of her penlight, he could all but feel the soft, worn edges against his fingers. He could only imagine what she was thinking of him now. "'m sorry. Shouldn'ta done that", he mumbled, tucking the end of the bandage in to fix it. He always got annoyed of them pretty quickly and wouldn't be wearing it for much longer than a day anyway. Messy would do him just fine.

Shaking her head, she put the letter back into her pocket with great care, which surprised him. He had half expected her to throw it in his face. "Do it properly, or it'll just fall of", she scolded him, plucking on the bandage to fix it. He moved to pull his leg out of her reach, but, surprisingly enough, she held it in place, her slender, graceful fingers competent and gentle as before. "Why shouldn't you? It ..." Her emotions overwhelmed her and her voice failed. She was well aware that this letter probably represented the very first time he'd ever revealed his feelings to anyone at all - and it was full of his love for her. Never in her life would she have dared hope for him to love her - yet he did, and he had told her so.

Before she found words again, he started talking in a low, gravelly voice, clearly struggling with his overwhelming feelings. "Hadn't meant for ya ta read it with me still here", he mumbled, once again unable to look at her. "Didn't want ya mad at me."

"Why would I be mad at you for something so beautiful? This is the most perfect love letter I've ever received!" she exclaimed.

With a pointed look around at the cells full of sleeping people he murmured: "Maybe if ya stopped shouting we'd get some privacy here. Have an audience here soon, 'f we keep going like this."

"You still need to eat, anyway - let's go sit in the kitchen, I've saved some rabbit and squirrel stew for you", she suggested.

He groaned in protest, rolling his eyes, but put on his boots, grabbed his crossbow and quiver and got up compliantly enough as he really didn't dig Carl eavesdropping on them. She felt bad when she saw how badly he was limping by now, but knew there would be no stopping him. An audience was the last thing either of them wanted, Daryl more so than her, and she wouldn't convince him to continue the conversation either on his perch or in her cell - they were just too exposed there.

She followed him down the stairs in her stocking feet, the moonlight glinting off the metal of his bow in fits and starts.


	2. when I'm gone

He stopped briefly at the foot of the stairs to load his crossbow and wait for her to catch up before setting out again down the hallway along the row of cells on the ground floor. All the privacy curtains were drawn and not a single candle was burning anywhere. It seemed that, inside the prison, nobody except them was awake at this hour. Looking up at the windows set high into the wall, she watched the clouds racing past, alternately covering and revealing the moon. With the sun going down so early, the high winds, and the approaching winter, whoever was out on watch surely wasn't having an easy time of it. She shivered.

"Want me to get somethin' warm to wear from your place?" he asked with a sidelong glance at her. "Weren't exactly prepared for comin' down here and wanderin' your ass off."

"That's so kind of you, Daryl, but I'm fine, thank you. I was just thinking of the people who are out on watch in this weather."

He clucked softly with his tongue. "Always thinkin' of everybody else", he grumbled. "Hell, half the people you do shit for probably don't even thank you for it."

"Those that matter do. Always." His eyes lingered on her face for a moment, taking in the way her eyes shone and the corners of her mouth curled upward as she spoke, and he wondered silently about who she meant. Quietly opening and closing the gate to the warden's room, moving like a wraith again now that he had calmed down, he stepped through into it with her next to him. They entered the hallway leading to the communal areas - kitchen, showers, rec room, and the access hallways to the generator room and the stairs leading down to the tombs. It was his turn to shiver as he remembered her getting trapped down there with a bloated walker blocking the door of the cell that she'd fled into in the isolation ward. His chest tightened with the memory of believing her dead and turned, lost to him forever.

Her eyes had strayed toward that hallway as well, and when she noticed him tensing up beside her, she gently brushed the back of his hand with hers, ever so slightly, ever so briefly, bringing him back from the bad places his mind was taking him to. "I will be forever grateful to you for finding me", she whispered. "I could never have pushed that creature out of the way with that heavy door."

"'s what friends are for, ain't it?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

They had reached the kitchen and she motioned for him to sit at one of the tables while she walked to the single refrigerator they'd hooked up once they'd gotten the generators going. Obviously, as they didn't want to draw the wrong kind of attention, they were skimpy on the light and on noise of all kinds, but they used this one appliance for food that would spoil otherwise - as rabbit and squirrel stew definitely would. From the corner of her eye she saw him raise his right foot off the ground for a moment with a look of relief on his face as he sat down before the stony mask slipped back into place and he became the hardened, seasoned hunter and warrior again, setting his bow on the ground and leaning the stock against his leg. She got the bowl that she'd put aside for him, asking: "Do you want me to heat it for you? It'll only take a minute."

"Naw, I'd eat it raw", he mumbled as she sat down opposite him, placing the bowl and a slice of stale bread on the table between them. "Haven't had a decent meal the whole day. Had half a barbecued rabbit between the two of us before we set out on our way back, nothin' ever since." He started wolfing down the stew, scooping it onto the spoon with the bread, finishing it off in less than two minutes. Toward the end, while he was already wiping and licking the bowl clean with the last of the bread, his fingers, and then his tongue, he slowed down as he realized that there would be nothing to distract his attention from their conversation once he was done with this. Never a coward, though, he finished cleaning the bowl and set it back on the table, glancing at her folded hands and then at the floor. "That was real good", he mumbled awkwardly. "You cooked, or it would've tasted like shit."

She blushed in the moonlight briefly illuminating her face, and he could feel his pulse speeding up again. "There wouldn't have been anything but the first of Rick's carrots and potatoes without you," she said softly. "You take such good care of these people, Daryl."

"Don't care about 'em all, jus' about a handful", he all but growled. "They yelled for Merle to kill me in that arena of theirs, remember? My own brother!"

"I'm so glad you got out of there, and returned with Merle", she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "If they had killed you there, for fun ... It would have ... That would have been as bad ..." She faltered, but he knew.

"No way", he protested. "She was your little girl. I'm a piece of shit, that don't compare."

"Oh, you're not, and it does", she breathed. "You're so much more than a friend to me, and you will never know how happy your letter has made me." She took it out of her pocket once again and placed it on the table between them, neatly in the middle, and he looked at the precise right angles he'd folded.

"You're not mad at me?" he asked again, his voice betraying his disbelief.

"Who could be mad at you for this? It's not as if you'd written anything offensive."

"But ..." He fidgeted, searching for the right words. Shit, he was no good at this at all. "You could do so much better", he finally managed. "Get yourself a decent guy that knows how to treat a woman right. Not a guy like me who don't know nothin'."

"Oh Daryl, you know everything that counts. You're still every bit as good as them, you know?"

He flinched, thinking back to the farm, to that night, to her leaning over him and kissing his temple, next to the bullet graze. To himself snapping at her for her trouble, because getting angry and yelling and fighting had been the only way he'd known how to react back then. Remembering himself getting into her face when she'd sought him out at his lonely campsite after her girl had shambled out of that horrible barn, along with half of Hershel's family, his neighbors and friends. Remembering her consoling him, when it was her who had lost so much.

"'m sure glad you're not mad at me", he finally managed to say. "Losing you as a friend would've been a bitch. Didn't want ta ruin what we had, so I didn't give it to ya, but when that walker grabbed me ... Every day out there could be my last, and when I thought this was it for me ... I knew I wanted you ta have it, and know ... With me still there, not just ... when I'm gone."

"You were gone once, and I wish I'd had it then", she said wistfully, and he cast his eyes down again, unable even to look at his own large, tanned, calloused hands on the table, so unlike her small, white, soft ones still resting on the other side. "But of course you didn't have a choice. You'd believed Merle dead, and then you found him again. He helped save your life in Woodbury. But with everyone angry at him for the terrible things he'd done there, and unwilling to compromise, for your sake ... He was the only family you had left, and they forced you to choose. They shouldn't have done that to you."

He was struck speechless. Of course, he wasn't eloquent to begin with, in the sense of being good at talking to people and making them understand and follow his line of thinking, especially where his feelings were concerned. But this statement of hers had him completely mindblown. She had given voice to what he'd felt at the time, but could never have put into words. He had understood not wanting Merle with them. Not after what his brother had done, and especially not with the way Glenn felt about Maggie. He could get that. Hell, he would have been the same had their positions been reversed.

But Rick not stepping in to negotiate a compromise, such as giving Merle a cell in a different cell block and keeping him separate from the group, yet still accessible for Daryl, had been like a punch to the gut. He'd felt that he was getting kicked out along with his brother in return for his dedication to the group. After risking his life for every single one of them countless times, after never having asked for anything, that was what he'd gotten. He was surprised to find that the memory still stung after all this time. His vision was blurring. He swiped at his eyes and was surprised when his shaking hand came away wet.

Carol rose from her chair, picked up his clean bowl and carried it over to the sink to give him time to compose himself again. Merles death such a short time after Daryl had been reunited with him had been a terrible blow for the younger Dixon brother, even more so because the Governor had forced him to put his own brother down after he'd deliberately allowed him to turn. She had tried to pick up the pieces after Daryl had returned with Merle's body and buried him, not accepting any help from them, but it had been hard and had taken a long time. From her point of view, he wasn't quite done with his grieving yet, so she tried to give him some space whenever it seemed like he was going back there. Attempting to console him, she knew, would have him out there again in a heartbeat, hunting for the rest of the night

Instead, she turned pouring water into the sink, rinsing and cleaning the bowl and then drying it and putting it away again into a big affair until she saw him sitting up straighter from the corner of her eye. This was her cue for returning to the table and sitting back down. Slowly, giving him time to recognize she was reaching for him and withdraw if he needed to, she slid her hands across the table and grasped his hands in hers, cradling them. He remembered her holding his left hand like that after he'd told her about the walker grabbing it. His stomach did something that felt funny, and his heart started thundering in his chest again. What was it about her that had him react to her touch like that?

"Rick never told me everything that happened at Woodbury and before you left with Merle", she said softly. "Sometimes, it seems, the good Deputy still likes playing his cards close to his chest and I feel he counts on us not talking about this. But I do know you'd never have left without saying good-bye if your hand hadn't been forced - by Glenn, Maggie, Rick, any or all of them. And I do know that you're too good a man to get rejected like that. Rick did tell me you'd said that I'd understand - and I did, and still do. This doesn't stand between us. And neither does Sophia."

She felt his hands clenching in hers, but didn't let him escape her hold. "Please", she whispered, making it about herself so he could allow himself to give in. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to say this again." Patient as always, she waited until she felt his hands relax once more before going on. "I know you're still blaming yourself for not finding her before she was bitten, and that this is one reason why you feel that you're worthless." Her heart ached when his shoulders slumped as if the weight on them was too much to carry. But it was true, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to address this again, so she continued. "The truth is that you went out to look for her every day until you got hurt. You did all you could. All of your time on that farm was dedicated to finding her and giving her back to me. It's why I fell in love with you."

He was stunned, and it was obvious. His hands went limp in hers, his jaw went slack and he actually stared at her, meeting her eyes. "You ...", he began, but he ran out of words. There was too much he needed to say, all of it at once, and he just didn't have any words left.

"Thank you so much for telling me - and with you still here, so we can enjoy being together", she went on, smiling at him. "You're the second most precious person in my life, Daryl, and you've made me so happy. Everyone always thinks I'm this weak, sad woman, but you don't." She hesitated briefly before continuing. "You understand when I'm sad and why, and you listen when I need to talk, and you're always there for me. I value your friendship so much because you don't make friends lightly - and this", she let go of his hands and instead held up his letter, holding it ever so carefully because it meant so much to her, as much as it had to him, "has made it so special. I hope I won't -"

"You won't", he interrupted her, sounding out of breath. "How could you. You'd never do anything ... I know that. None a them" - with a flick of his head in the direction of their cell block - "can't hold a candle to ya." For a brief moment, the kitchen went completely dark as the clouds covered the moon again. When it came back out, he was standing, with his bow on his back. She hadn't heard a sound, not even of the chair being pushed away from the table, and it brought back home to her how deadly he could be if he so chose. "But I gotta warn ya, I ain't the romantic type. No holdin' hands or kissin' or stuff in front of an audience. We ain't a damn show."

She beamed at him, rising herself and following him as he started back to their cell block. "I'd figured as much, but thanks for the warning."


	3. Out there alone

As I have no other way of replying to my anonymous guest reviewer, whom I'd like to thank a lot for giving me his or her opinion, I need to do it here. The Woodbury people only arrived at the end of the last episode of season 3. Merle died in the previous one and would have been buried right away as the days of refrigeration on that scale are over. Also, I feel that so shortly after the people of Woodbury having rooted for Merle to kill his own brother, which I think is gruesome and cruel on Merle as well, whichever side you look at this from, Daryl wouldn't have wanted them to attend the funeral even if they'd been there yet - and as Merle's brother, that's his prerogative. Again, Guest, thanks for taking the time to comment, I hope that one sentence hasn't put you off too much and you'll be back here. Now, on toward chapter three!

* * *

Facing her for breakfast would have been too awkward for him, so he made sure to be awake, fed and out before even Carol was up. He had an agreement with Rick that, unless there were bigger plans involving him, he could go out to be on his own whenever he needed to, and with the influx of what felt like a million semi-hostile strangers from Woodbury, he'd been making good use of it. Rick hadn't indicated that he had need of him the day before, so he slipped out before dawn, pushing his bike for about a mile so as not to wake everyone, waving up to the people in the guard towers and nodding his thanks to the two new faces - Mitchell and Douglas - opening and closing the gates for him.

Once he was far enough out he kicked his bike to life and settled into its saddle with a sigh, content for the first time since he'd found his letter gone two nights ago. The lonely street along with the roar of his bike's engine was more relaxing to him than anything else before or after the Turn, and he completely gave himself over to riding his bike. Merle's bike.

There were times when thinking of his brother made him angry, because of how unfairly life had treated him. There were times when thinking of Merle made him sad for the way he'd wasted his life - their lives - before the Turn. Today, thinking of his brother gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling for which he was quite certain Merle would have kicked his ass.

Merle hadn't been the world's best big brother, but for as long as he'd been there he'd tried to protect little Daryl's skinny ass to the best of his ability, which was more than anyone else had ever done. Now that some water had passed under the bridge Daryl found he believed what Merle had told him that day in the woods before they'd returned to the prison together. By now he was sure that, had Merle known what punishing beatings Daryl was getting from their Daddy, he would have come back sooner to get him out of there. He'd been genuinely shocked at the sight of Daryl's bare back - he couldn't have faked that.

Utterly comfortable on his brother's bike, Daryl allowed his left hand to drop down and rest on his thigh. He felt more relaxed than he had in years which was strange, considering the world they were living in now. For the first few miles he merely paid enough attention to his surroundings to keep his ride safe and notice significant changes since he'd last come through here. It was only when he passed beyond the point where he'd turned the bike to head back home the last time, venturing into unknown territory, that he started truly looking at what was there for him to see.

The biggest change, of course, was the change in seasons. The last time he'd taken this road was right after the taking of Woodbury, a good nine weeks ago, and the trees had still been green then. Now, most of the leaves had turned and some had already fallen, creating a yellow and red carpet for him to drive across. As he knew firsthand how slick this carpet was between layers, he was extra careful, not wanting to risk a fall and serious injury. He slowed down and put his hand back on the handlebar of his bike.

He passed through two small villages, not unlike those he'd searched with Michonne, but as he was alone he minimized his risk. He did not search individual buildings just for the heck of it but only investigated a small store in the first one which turned out to be not only empty of walkers but also nearly untouched by foragers. Not that he found much to take along - and really, with two days's worth of supplies, a med pack, and a shirt and his poncho already stuffed into his saddlebags he couldn't have taken much anyway. He did take a warm blanket that he added to his bedroll which he had tied in place on the bike. He would be grateful for it at night if he didn't find a house to stay in, and they could always use more blankets at the prison. He made sure to close the door tightly when he left.

Around noon he took a short break. He had some jerky and water and a slice of bread which was so stale and hard that it didn't taste of anything any longer. After looking all around to make sure that he and his bike were well out of view from the road, he lay down in the long, dry grass and looked up at the sky, watching the torn clouds skuttle through his field of vision, driven by winds that were still high. The weather was good enough, though, not too hot and not too cold, which he was very grateful for. Riding in inclement weather was a bitch, taking a car for this was out of the question, and he didn't think he could have remained cooped up at the prison which made him feel claustrophobic on bad days and cramped on good ones.

His thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Carol, and he felt his cheeks growing warm. Never before had he opened up to anyone like this, and he felt terribly vulnerable for doing it. At the same time he knew that he would always be safe with Carol. Just as he looked out for her, she would never do anything he wasn't comfortable with.

He wondered what coming back would be like this time around. She had always been there before to welcome him or patch him up. Would she want to hug this time? He felt himself blushing again. Surely not - she'd know he wouldn't be capable of that, not at the gate, in front of everyone, maybe not even in private for some time. Yet once again he despised himself for being so fucked up, for all the things he couldn't do that other people seemed perfectly comfortable with - but at the same time he knew he could trust her to forgive him, even if he himself could not.

After what felt like half an hour he sat back up again and put his leather jacket and vest back on. Riding only in the vest, with his arms bare, would have been too cold this late in the year. Taking the bike back out onto the road from where he'd been hiding with it, he once more kicked it to life after rapping the tank with a knuckle to check how much gas he had left. He'd be okay for another day, he estimated, but he was going to syphon some by midday of the following day at the latest.

Making good time, he reached the next little village, raided a closet-sized store for a few cans of soda and bags of jerky and continued on his way. By now it was roughly three in the afternoon by his estimate and he started to look out for a place to spend the night. He checked out several farms which painfully reminded him of the Greene place but it seemed they'd all been hit by groups that weren't looking to use them for shelter but just to plunder and pillage what they could. The doors had been kicked in, breaking the locks, and none had all windows on the ground floor intact. Setting any of them up as a safe shelter for the night would have been much too time-consuming.

By the time the sun touched the trees he had resigned himself to spending the night out in the open. He'd started looking for a sheltered place that still had sun now and would be easy to camouflage. He came upon another stretch of forest - no sun at any time - and speeded up slightly. The trees were mainly pines so there were no dead leaves covering the street.

Just then he noticed a faux-rustic sign coming up that pointed out the way to "Lakeview Cabin - Hunting Lodge" down an overgrown dirt track which branched off the road at a right angle and looked as if nobody had used it in years. Slowing down to a crawl, he turned off the road and onto the trail, carefully following it into the woods.

Following his hunter's instinct, he killed his engine a few minutes in. He didn't want to risk announcing himself to any potential occupants of the "Hunting Lodge" which would probably turn out to be a glorified wooden shack. Nor did he intend to risk his bike. When he spied a huge, overgrown stack of felled trees, never processed into boards or firewood, he first investigated it and then gently leaned the bike against it, carefully camouflaging it with the leafiest branches he could find in the area.

Then, shouldering his loaded crossbow and avoiding the path leading to it, he set out for the lodge again, the eerie sound of the wind rushing through the treetops covering what little noise he produced.

After about ten minutes he saw it in the distance. He hadn't been far off. It was little more than a wooden shack, but it seemed to be well maintained even though the people who had owned it surely hadn't been back since the Turn. As he had left the path he wasn't coming up directly on the entrance but slightly askance so he could see one side wall of the building as well. There were fluffy frilled curtains in every window, and flower baskets with dead plants were hanging from the rafters. This little house had meant a lot to someone before the Turn and they had taken good care of it. If he was lucky it hadn't been damaged by the same kind of marauders that had hit the farms he'd come across and he'd be able to stay here tonight.

So far he hadn't seen anything to indicate there were any other human beings, living or dead, anywhere near the house, but he stuck with his tactic. Keeping out of the line of sight of the windows by coming at the house from the corner he was facing, he crept from one bush to the next, staying low, keeping his head down with his hair hanging over his face so it wouldn't stand out against the trees and his dark clothes, and being extra careful about placing his feet. Having a branch snap under his weight now just wouldn't do.

When he reached the corner of the lodge he flattened himself against the wall, one ear to the weathered boards to listen for sounds from inside the building. His heart was hammering in his chest. If there were people in there he had to get away again without being noticed. He couldn't risk getting spotted and tailed back to the prison. They had enough on their hands with that crazed Governor still on the loose.

He remained motionless for more than a minute, listening intently. But there was nothing to hear beyond the rustling of the trees and the occasional bird. Once he heard a squirrel chittering at something in the distance, but it was too far away to matter. Finally, he swung his crossbow down from his shoulder, ducked down and passed along the front of the house, keeping well below the two small, curtained windows that were between him and the door. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was in plain view to anyone coming toward the house on the dirt track now, with any sort of cover too far away to be of any use to him.

Once he reached the door he flattened himself against the wall again, his back to the house, and listened some more. Still nothing but the sounds he would expect in a forest at this time of day. Closing his eyes, his nerves humming, his ears straining for any sound from inside, he reached for the doorknob with his left hand. Closing his fingers around the cool, smooth metal, he made a gentle twisting motion, wary of any noise the knob might make. It turned without a sound and the door moved inward ever so slightly. He held on to the knob and opened the door by not even an inch, just far enough to be able to peer through the opening.

Holding his breath, Daryl leaned forward, daring to expose himself for a peek into the house. Through the tiny opening he spied a neat room with a table and four chairs sitting under the curtained windows that he already seen from a distance. Through one of it he could see one of the flower baskets beyond it. There were cushions on the rustic wooden chairs and a checked tablecloth on the table, plus a vase with a bunch of more dead flowers in it. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Apart from the door not being locked there was no sign that anyone had been here since the Turn. But why was it unlocked? Could it truly have been undisturbed since before shit went down? Or was someone inside, watching his every move? Well, he wouldn't find out by just standing there. He stepped in front of the door and opened it.


	4. In here - alone?

He was hyper aware of every sound around him, every ray of sunlight, everything he touched as the door swung inward with barely a sound. Dust motes were dancing in the shafts of sunlight falling through the windows and dappling every surface inside with spots of brightness. The clean smell of wood unconsciously registering with him told him that he probably would not find the half liquefied owner of the cabin in here somewhere. It smelled too good and the insistent buzz and hum of thousands of flies was missing.

So, for that matter, was any other sound. There was not a soul in sight anywhere that he could see, but there was a closed door in the back of the main room and anything could be hiding behind it.

The same, of course, was true for the one he was still standing in like a fool. Switching his bow to his left hand for a moment, he spread the fingers of his right hand across the dry, warm wood of the front door and gently pushed some more, opening it all the way so it was flush against the wall to his right. Nobody had been hiding behind it.

In the rear left corner of the room, to the left of the closed door, there was a narrow spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. There was light at the top, so there was probably at least one room with a window up there, not just an attic. However, once he started ascending the stairs anyone upstairs would have an advantage on him. He'd be on the stairs, stuck, with no cover, no maneuverability and no line of sight, no room to aim his crossbow - a sitting duck.

He didn't know what was going to be the greater risk - opening that door in the back or going up to the second floor. But first things first - he postponed this decision in favor of searching the ground floor first. Glancing down, he assessed the wooden floor of the house. Like everything else, it looked well maintained, and so he took his first step in without hesitating. No creaking floorboards.

He let out a slow breath, careful to be as quiet as possible - which was very quiet, seeing as how he could sneak up on Rick in plain daylight without the former deputy sheriff being any the wiser. Although some of the men who had joined them at the prison from Woodbury had hunting experience, Daryl's stealth was still unsurpassed, and he put all of it to use now.

Reaching behind himself, he caught the knob once more and closed the door, again without a sound.

Raising his bow to shoulder height with hands that were rock-steady despite the fact that his heart was racing and he could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck and temples, he started searching the room. He peered under the table and into the nook behind the fridge in the corner. Nothing.

On top of the fridge he saw a flashlight along with a few packs of batteries which he assumed would fit into it. He silently slipped his backpack off his shoulders, opened the drawstring and slid the lamp and the batteries into it. Then he closed it and put it back on again, unwilling to leave it lying about as he still didn't know if he'd have to get out in a hurry.

He looked out of all the windows on the side that had been facing away from him on approach, hoping to see a car or even another motorcycle they'd be able to pick up later - if he made it out of here and back to the prison. But the failing light showed him only trees and bushes and underbrush. He could faintly hear the birds starting in on their evening songs. Darkness was falling fast now. The light in the hut had a distinct red tinge to it and he wanted to get done with his search before it got too dark in here.

He bent down to look under the bench and table in the corner opposite the one he'd first seen peeking in through the door. Nothing again. With the possible exception of the back room, the ground floor seemed to be clear. He braced himself for making his way upstairs.

As he hadn't detected any threat down here so far, he angled his bow upward as he set one foot on the lowest step. He paused right there, allowed his backpack to slide off again and silently set it on the ground next to the staircase. In the cramped space it would be too much of a liability, robbing him of what little maneuverability he would retain on his way up.

He had to hand it to the owner of the cabin - the thing was perfect. Not a single one of the smoothly sanded boards creaked as he inched his way up the stairs, holding his breath, hardly daring to blink, his eyes always on the splotch of light filtering down, watching out for nuances in brightness and shadows that would tell him someone was leaning forward into the light or back out of it.

He was convinced that if his heart were to beat any faster he'd pass out or have a heart attack. Carol was right. He needed to stop going out without backup. Nobody even knew where he'd gone. If there was someone lurking in here, waiting to take him out, he would never be found.

As his head came level with the upper floor he slowed to a crawl, his eyes taking in the light against the wood panelling of the ceiling, again watching for changes that would tell him someone had moved up there, trying to spy him on the stairs, get the drop on him. Still no sound, no movement, no changes in the light except for those induced by the racing clouds in the burning sky and the changing quality of the light itself as the sun was going down behind the forest.

He couldn't avoid it any longer. Standing coiled on one of the last steps leading up, he raised his head minimally to bring his eyes up to the same level as the floor. The upper room - and it was just one single room - was lower because the house's roof was its ceiling and it started at about waist height. The ceiling, with three windows set into it on either side, was panelled in wood. The walls were white, which, together with the six windows, made the room bright and inviting even in the failing light.

A wide, fluffy-looking bed draped all in white and with lots of small, brightly colored round pillows strewn across it stood against the wall opposite Daryl. To its left and right were bookshelves, full of more books than he'd seen in his entire life, obviously custom-built to fit under the ceiling.

Apart from that, there were only a thick, round floor cushion with another handful of books lying on it and several small stools. No wardrobe, no fucking table or chairs, nothing else to hide behind. He was overlooking the entire room from his spot on the staircase. Nothing. Clear. All that was left was the bloody closed room downstairs.

Because of the cramped stairwell he had to keep his crossbow angled upward on his way down as well. He was very careful about placing his feet, wary of hurting his right ankle even more which had started throbbing again after the day's antics. The last thing he needed was to return to Carol more fucked up than he'd left. He did know that it made her sad to see him hurt, and she'd had her share of sad in his book. No need to add to it if he could help it.

He heaved a soundless sigh of relief when he stepped off the stairs again. Now for that damned room. Stalling, he looked around the large room - maybe he should do a quick search of the cupboards before opening that stupid door, just in case he had no more time for that afterward?

He opened the cupboard closest to him to check for supplies - canned food, dried beans, coffee, anything - and the hinges creaked. His heart jumped into his throat and speeded up some more, his nerves instantly on high alert. He'd given himself away.

Now he could no longer delay - he himself, by being so careless, had taken away all of his choices; and until now, he realized with deep regret, he'd still had the choice of opening the door or just walking away. It would have meant sleeping out in the open, but it had been possible. Now, however, he had to open that door, himself, or risk it opening at a time not of his choosing.

Briefly, he thought of Carol waiting for him to return back at the prison. Listening at the gate for the sound of his motorbike. She would be worried for him tonight, would wonder whether he'd found a safe place to stay where he could get some rest. How long would she keep waiting if he didn't come back? How long until she'd give up hoping?

Hot gratitude flooded him when he though of his letter, of her saying that she wished she'd had it already when he'd briefly gone off with Merle after all that Woodbury shit.

Now she did have it. She knew how he felt about her.

And he ... He knew ...

She might feel the same about him. At the end of the world, he had finally found someone who cared enough for him to notice when he didn't come home at night, and worry about him.

For just a moment, he doubted that it had been wise to burden her with his feelings for her. Wouldn't that make it all the harder for her the day he didn't come back? Fuck, why were feelings so complicated? Why was it so easy to hurt others so deeply on this most intimate of levels?

Would anyone go out to search for him, the way they'd gone out for Sophia? Or would most of them be glad to see him gone? The silent, brooding redneck who growled and snapped at them whenever they tried to get close to him?

"Officer Friendly jus' gonna get summun else ta do the huntin' for 'em all", Merle's voice piped up, unbidden, inside his head. "Ain't none o' them gonna miss ya any, lil' brother, don'tcha worry. They's gonna get along jus' as well without your sorry ass hangin' around."

Just then he heard the tiniest sound from behind the door in the back of the room. Cursing himself once more for his carelessness - checking for supplies before clearing the house, how much more of a dumbass could he be?! - he made his silent way across the room and toward the door in three swift strides. Whatever was hiding in there was not an animal, because it was alive. Any forest critter locked in there, or the owner's dog, cat, whatever - would have starved to death, and animals didn't turn.

It had to be a human, which was bad news either way. Maybe, ironically, the owner had died peacefully in there in his or her sleep, turned, and been lazy and quiet until now because Daryl was the walker's first potential victim to step through the door. Walkers he could do with ease. Their only motivation was to feed and they were very straightforward about it. They ran at you, you aimed, shot, stabbed or did your thing, they dropped dead a second time, game over.

The live ones had become far more frightening at this point. Their encounter with the Governor had taught them that not all humans left alive embraced the concept of working together for the good of the species as a whole. Some people had apparently gone Darwin, setting themselves up as the fittest ones who were going to survive at any cost - even to themselves.

That guy Milton, their own Andrea who had stayed in Woodbury over Michonne's misgivings, hell, his own brother and the innocent people of Woodbury who'd moved into the prison - none of them were monsters. They'd been blindfolded by a psychopath who had snapped under whatever he'd been through. What was it he would find behind that door?

Careful not to make another sound that would give away his position, he hugged the wall next to the door. Once again he reached out with his left hand, his right holding his bow steady in front of him. His fingers closed around the knob, gripping it tightly.

He felt like the door should start pulsing in time with his raging heartbeat now.

He started gently twisting the knob, waiting for a maniac to rip the door open from the other side and come charging out at him. When he couldn't twist the knob any further and no maniac appeared, he pushed against the door ever so slightly and it started swinging in on well-oiled hinges.

Already looking through the sights of his bow, finger on the trigger, he stepped into the opening without a sound.

A single bed, neatly made up. A vase with dead flowers on the nightstand. A dark-haired boy, his face a rictus of fear, cowering next to it, a rifle in his shaking hands, aimed at Daryl. Time slowed down to a crawl.

Daryl raised his left hand in a gesture which was probably as old as mankind. "Now, we can -" he began.

A shot rang out.


	5. Not alone

A searing pain high up in his left arm had Daryl cry out in surprise. The little son of a bitch had actually shot him!

With a vicious growl, abandoning all attempts at being quiet, he slammed the door all the way open, making sure that nobody else was hiding behind it, and stormed into the room. Yanking the rifle out of the boy's hands, still aimed at him but not reloaded, he smacked him in the temple with his crossbow. Furious as he was, he didn't care to catch the boy as he slumped to the floor.

Nor did he care enough to do something about the bleeding gash in his temple as he tied him to one of the chairs in the main room with a length of rope from his backpack, making sure to tightly secure his hands behind his back. Once he'd ensured that the little motherfucker wouldn't creep up on him from behind, he went into the back room again to check for hints on who the kid might be.

A crumpled backpack was lying on the ground where the boy had been cowering, and he snatched it up, all but ripping it open right there on the bed. He swore when his arm stung in response. Strewing the pack's contents across the bedspread, he examined his find. Round, nerdy looking glasses in a case. Matches. A dozen or so bullets for the rifle. A can opener. A pocket knife, which made him laugh harshly - a POCKET knife? When some walker heads were almost too hard for his own huge buck knife if he hit them at the wrong angle in the heat of the moment? What did the kid think this was?

The things he didn't find struck him as forcefully as those he did. Any other weapon. Food of any kind. Water, or at least an empty container to prove that he'd had any. Medical supplies. Daryl wasn't famous at the prison for taking good care of himself, but even he didn't venture out without the most basic of supplies. This kid had nothing, not even the means to hunt for food or set traps. He had to be starving, and dying of thirst.

An idea hit him and he quickly snatched the boy's stuff back up before grabbing the bedspread and the covers beneath it. Next, he went back upstairs while it was getting darker by the minute. He got all the spreads and blankets from that soft, fluffy bed as well and then did a round of the house, covering up all the windows. Lastly, he locked the front door, not without a pang of regret that his bike was so far away from the cabin. Only then, with this night's shelter as secure as he could make it, did he dig out the flashlight, switch it on and return to the chair to which he'd tied the boy.

He must have hit the guy pretty hard because he was only just coming around, and it had to have been at least half an hour since they'd met so explosively. This thought reminded him that the little fucker had taken a shot at him and he looked down at his arm. The sleeve of his jacket felt slick against his skin and he became aware again of the dull pain just below his shoulder. Maybe it wasn't just a graze? Carol was going to tear him a new one for this. Surely she had to be getting tired of patching him up again and again.

But first things first. With the kid coming around, he needed to get some information out of him before he could play doctor. Setting his crossbow down next to himself, the stock leaning against his leg, he reached out and judiciously applied pressure to the nerve bundle on the boy's back just below his shoulder blade. The kid jerked up with a strangled yelp. "Ow! What! Get off me!"

"Yeah, you wish", Daryl said darkly, thinking back to Hershel's shed, to his knife turning in the wound the fence had left in Randall's leg, to his knuckles, split and bleeding from beating information out of that first kid he'd tortured. To Carol's disappointed face, her sad eyes, when she'd brought him the bandages for taking care of his hands, ostentatiously refusing to do it for him this one time because of what he'd done to hurt them. He shook his head, bringing himself back to the present.

The boy looked around wildly. "What's with all the blankets? What are you doing, you creep?"

"So I'm the creep here for makin' this place safe?" Daryl sneered. "When it was you who lurked in that room and shot me when I was tryin' to talk ta ya?"

"You had that crossbow aimed at me!" the boy protested.

"An' did I fire? Unlike someone else I could name? Speaking of which - what's yer name, dickhead?"

The boy moved against the rope now, unsuccessfully trying to free his hands. Testing the waters, he snarled: "I'm not telling you anything unless you untie me, you hear that?"

"I heard ya", Daryl snarked, "but your bargaining position is ... let's say a little weak right now. Got yer rifle, yer pack, got ya tied up. All o' that says you answer me first, what'cha say?"

The boy glared at him sullenly, and it struck Daryl how young he was - about Beth's age, give or take a year. Nevertheless, if he was with a group, as Daryl believed he had to be because of his total lack of provisions, he could ultimately prove to be as dangerous as that asshole Blake. There was absolutely no way this kid could have made it alone so far without any supplies.

Daryl reached out for the boy's shoulder blade once more and he tried to pull back, with little success. "Answer me", Daryl said in his meanest voice and with his fiercest glare, his index finger resting on the nerve bundle again, digging into it ever so slightly, "an' I jus' might feed ya."

The longing in the kid's eyes at the mention of food nearly undid him. All of a sudden, he was a child, looking incredibly harmless and innocent. "You've got food? Do you have water? Anything to drink? Please ... I haven't had a sip of water in two days ..."

With a disgusted snort, more at himself than the child sitting in front of him, Daryl got his backpack from the table behind his back and grabbed one of the plastic bottles of water that he was carrying. He'd topped it off shortly before his noon break after drinking his fill directly from the creek and it was still almost full. Unscrewing the cap, he held it to the boy's mouth who took in a few greedy gulps before getting some into his windpipe and starting to cough.

Daryl pulled his bottle back and said coldly: "Your name?"

"Patrick, sir."

Sir. He almost laughed out loud. Not an hour before, this kid had ambushed him, and now he was calling him 'sir'. "You with a group?"

"I was, but the other two guys I was with just left me behind two days ago." He looked as if he were about to cry, his face the picture of misery, his eyes full of tears. "They said they were looking for food, and left together. They had all our stuff, I only had this ..." He vaguely nodded toward his own backpack on the table lying next to Daryl's. "I waited for a full day, but they never came back, and I was afraid I'd never find anyone again ..." He WAS crying now and Daryl started to feel like a piece of shit. Everything about this kid struck him as sincere where Randall had come across as an accomplished liar.

"Ya realize they prob'ly didn't leave ya behind on purpose", he mumbled. "Musta run into somethin', they're likely dead now. Ya had a camp?"

"No, sir, we were just ... moving around from one house to the next. When they left to scout they wanted to find one again." He was sniffling, trying to regain his composure and failing miserably. "I thought ... I thought I was going to die out here all alone." The look he gave Daryl was half fear, half gratitude.

"Yeah, and ya would have, if ya were a better shot", Daryl growled at him. His arm couldn't wait any longer. Sitting down opposite the kid, he slipped out of his jacket and the boy ... Patrick ... gasped. Looking down, Daryl saw that his left arm was covered in dried blood that had run down from a wound just above his bicep. Cursing, he reached for the medpack in his bag and opened it. Carol was definitely going to kill him for getting hurt again. And it looked as if she'd get to dig the bullet out of his arm as a bonus. Jeez, what a waste of space he was.

"Can I help?" Patrick asked.

"You've done just about enough fer one night", Daryl mumbled, getting out a small bottle of Jack. He unscrewed the cap, filled it and poured the capful of the pungent liquid directly into the hole in his arm. Patrick stared in horror as Daryl's face drained of color and contorted with pain. Screwing the cap back onto the bottle, Daryl got out a bandage, ripped it open and quickly bandaged his arm. While he was at it, he rolled up his right pants leg to inspect the bandage there. There were small red stains dotted across it, resembling freckles, but all in all it didn't look bad. He sat down to take off his boot and sock.

His ankle looked slightly swollen, which was in keeping with the dull throb he'd been feeling in it for the past two hours or so. He took off the bandage with practised ease, got the dressing unstuck from the gash which had scabbed over nicely, and tightly bandaged only his ankle before putting on his footwear again. When he was done he looked up to find Patrick watching him intently.

"Whatcha starin' at?" he snapped.

"You've got everything you need in there", Patrick said, sounding awed. "Are you also moving about from one house to the next?"

"Naw", Daryl said, shaking his head. Squinting at the gash his crossbow had left in Patrick's temple, he got out one of the disinfectant wipes that Carol had discovered, cleaned the wound and then put a band-aid on it. After packing his medical bag again he got out two hunks of bread, a few bits of jerky and a rare treat - a bar of chocolate. He stepped behind the chair to untie his captive. Turning his chair around and sitting down with his arms draped over its back, he shoved half the food and the chocolate across the table toward Patrick and started digging in himself.

"We got this place", he began, chewing on his mouthful of dried meat. "If ya want, I could take you along, might be able ta take you in."

.-.

As usual, she'd been hovering about the gates on and off since morning whenever her chores allowed, waiting for the roar of his motorbike. When it came, shortly after noon, she sagged with relief. Her hand briefly went to the back pocket of her pants before she turned toward cell block C to get Rick and Hershel - just in case.

They were all surprised to see someone riding behind him as he approached - a boy, from the looks of it, with his arms tightly wrapped about Daryl's waist, looking absolutely terrified. It seemed the kid was carrying Daryl's full backpack while Daryl, for space reasons, with the kid riding behind him, had a much smaller one on his own back.

After giving his customary half nod to Carol to tell her he was okay, Daryl waited for Rick to step up to the bike after closing the outer gate again. "Need ta decide what ta do about this kid", he said. "Found him out there, all alone, thought we might, ya know, take him in?"

Given Daryl's reclusive nature and the fact that he felt the prison was already way too crowded with all the new people from Woodbury, saying that this surprised Rick would have been putting it mildly, but he nodded. "Take your time", he said, patting Daryl's shoulder, which for some reason made him wince, but Rick let it go. "I'll get our gang together, you bring your man", he nodded at Patrick, "and we make a decision together. It's good to see you, Daryl."

"Daryl?" Patrick asked from behind him.

"Yeah. Daryl Dixon. That was our leader, Rick Grimes." Daryl nodded up toward the cell block, looking at Carol as he carefully eased off the clutch to get the bike moving again at a snail's pace, and she smiled at him and started walking back up next to Rick. He slowly made his way up on the bike, right up to the entrance, where he let Patrick get off, climbed off himself and put it on its stand. "I'll lock him in our welcome cell", he called down to Rick who nodded in reply.

"Cell?" Patrick asked in a quavering voice.

"Well, whaddoyaknow, it's a prison, it's got cells. You're a stranger, we don't know you from Adam. Until we've decided one way or another, you'll stay in a cell. Won't be long. I'll even get ya some more food", Daryl promised. Making their way in, they passed by the kitchen where Daryl indeed picked up some shrivelled apples and a plastic bottle of boiled water and handed them to his charge before taking him to the cell that had held Michonne and Merle before him. "Won't be long", he repeated.

.-.

After riding all day the previous day, sleeping with one eye open during the night and speeding back to the prison with Patrick snuggling up to him today, Daryl felt as if his feet were made of lead as he once again made his slow way up to his perch. Carol, he knew, wouldn't be far behind. Maybe he could get himself cleaned up and change his bandage before she arrived and get Hershel to dig out Patrick's bullet later without her ever knowing about this most recent injury. He felt like shit for having this idea at all, but he also knew that seeing him hurt once again would upset her. Damn, this had to stop!

Dropping his bedroll, he all but collapsed on it, closing his eyes for a moment and allowing his head to fall back. Just then, he heard her quick, soft steps approaching on the ground floor. With a rueful glance at the hole in his jacket sleeve he resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to admit to getting shot. There was no way she was not going to spot this, with the sun illuminating his perch like a fucking theater stage just now.

He looked up to see her standing right before him, concern all over her face. "Who is he?"

"Jus' a kid. The people he was with musta gotten themselves killed, got left behind with nothin' to his name 'cept for a rifle and a can opener", he muttered, shaking his head. "Thought we might take 'im in - won't make it on his own. Don't know the first thing about survivin' out there."

She smiled proudly at this, but her smile dimmed again right away as she took in his appearance. "You've had a rough time of it", she stated.

He mumbled something unintelligible. "Pardon me?" she asked. "I didn't catch that."

"Jus' wanna thank ya for not makin' a scene at the gate", he mumbled, his thumb going to his mouth, betraying his insecurity. His chest and throat constricted with anxiety, making it hard to breathe. He had no idea how he was supposed to behave right now. He had revealed his feelings to her, and apparently she felt the same for him, but ... Surely they were not supposed to jump each others' bones right now, the way Glenn and Maggie did upon reuniting whenever they'd been separated? And surely he was not supposed to follow his childhood example either?

"I won't make you uncomfortable like that", she assured him, taking one last step toward him to close the distance between them. Right at that moment she noticed the hole in his sleeve. Her face turned white. "What happened?" she asked in a tight voice. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad, not at all", he mumbled, blushing furiously. "Kid was scared, got me in the arm with his bloody rifle. Bullet's still stuck in it, but I cleaned it, bandaged it, 'm fine."

Two minutes later, she was back with her medical kit. She'd practised on him under Hershel's supervision all too often and he knew she could do this easily, so he held still while she got the bullet out and properly cleaned and bandaged his arm. He declined when she asked about painkillers, and knowing him all too well, and with the wound not deep and likely to heal fast, she accepted his answer. She carefully packed her kit back up again and put his discarded bandage and her bloodstained antiseptic wipes aside to throw away later.

"Now", she said, turning toward him with a brilliant smile. He was back, and more or less in one piece. He had brought back a kid who'd been out there alone, probably saving his life. He hadn't gone ballistic at the boy for shooting him. She was so happy, and so proud of him. "I'm glad you're back home", she said softly. "And I'll never make a scene at the gate. We're not a damn show", she quoted him and winked.

He heaved a sigh of relief. "Glad 'm back, too", he mumbled, a weight lifting off his chest. "For a while there, when I thought there might be several people hidin' in that cabin ..." He trailed off, knowing she'd understand. Just then, he saw her hand wander toward the back pocket of her pants, and he felt his cheeks growing hot. She was carrying his letter with her. His blood sang.

"C'm here", he mumbled, reaching out with his good arm and tentatively pulling her into a hug. "Glad we have this, have each other", he managed once she could no longer see his face because he was crushing her against his chest, his scruffy beard grazing her cheek. "This ... feels kinda good", he had to admit.

Then he pulled away for just a moment, looking down at her. "I got no fuckin' idea what I'm supposed ta do here", he admitted. "But ... You waitin' at the gate ... Without makin' a scene ... Could we do that? For a start, while I figure this out? Always? Or, ya know ... for however long we have?" She nodded wordlessly, tears running down her cheeks. He gently wiped them off with one hand before pulling her close again. The world shrank down to the space the two of them were occupying, to her breath on his collarbone and his heartbeat in her ears.

They were still sitting on his bedroll with him hugging her when Rick came to get them.


End file.
